


the bird has flown

by andsmile



Series: hard things break [3]
Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: F/M, compilation for appreciation, kind of jeronica but not really, mentions of barchie, not so platonic, or varchie cookie week, post-4x18, this wasn't written for bugheads, varchie content creator appreciation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-31
Updated: 2020-07-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:20:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25637206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andsmile/pseuds/andsmile
Summary: He lives at Pop’s for seven weeks before he moves to Iowa.or,a glimpse into jughead's mind (post-4x18)
Relationships: Jughead Jones/Veronica Lodge
Series: hard things break [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1742893
Comments: 11
Kudos: 56





	the bird has flown

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lostinlodge](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lostinlodge/gifts).



> This is for the lovely Mel, who asked for 'Jughead and Veronica talk about the Barchie mess' and got a surprising drabble in the _Hard Things Break_ series. Hope you like it sweetie, your taste is impecable.
> 
> I never meant for this to be a thing, but now it is. If you feel way too strongly for Bughead and can't stand the thought of anything Jeronica, even if implied, I'd let this one go. It won't change what comes next. I don't think this works as a standalone, you should read parts one and two first. also! the 'attic room at pop's' idea was totally inspired by my girl julia's veggie drabble [half-light](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17451776/chapters/41415773), so kudos to her and go read that.

"half of what i say is meaningless, but i say it so the other half may reach you"

(khalil gibran)

.

.

.

Jughead’s hurt is a strange feeling in his chest that grows bigger like some sort of black hole that sucks all the pain and turns it into this big _nothing_ that he can only, eloquently, since he's a writer, call _conformism_.

He’d always known that one day Archie would be confused by his heart or his dick or wherever the blood was pumping to that day, and that he’d present Betty with this confusion, and that Betty would reach that Dorothy-esque moment where she’d have a choice to follow the yellow brick road.

But when it came to it, the fact that this is _still_ a _choice_ , after all this time, after everything they’d been through, just tells him everything he needs to know.

They’ll be forever on borrowed time. There’ll always be a universe in which Betty chooses to be with Archie, a universe that would come back to her mind after a silly or a big fight, a _what if_ that would always be better than anything they could live exactly given its imaginary quality.

The realization that he doesn't want that life—that he doesn't want, in ten years from now, to wake up one day and find Betty’s green eyes distant, living a movie in her head about how her love for him got in the way of a storybook fairy tale—crawls silently into him.

He asks for time to think after what Betty tells him and Betty just gives it to him so easily, no begging, no big love declarations, nothing. She wears her guilt with pride and says _whatever you need, as long as you’re back._

He keeps thinking about it, _as long as you’re back_ , for a long time. He doesn’t know why it bothers him that she’s said that, but it does. It’s like she had said _whatever you need, as long as it’s what I need_ , and he can’t look at Betty the same way.

He isn’t angry. He isn’t angry with her or with Archie. Maybe a little with himself, because that’s always where his anger ends up being projected—but he just can’t feel anything, can’t reach the enormous love he’s felt for her before. He can’t feel any sympathy or tenderness for who he’s always considered his brother.

He’s just done, he thinks. With the boy, and the girl, he’s loved since he was six. He’s done with all of it.

Jughead shows up at Pop’s with a duffel bag. He has virtually nowhere else to go until they graduate, and he thinks that if someone ought to understand him, it’s going to be Veronica Lodge, as ironic as it all sounds.

Working a few shifts downstairs to pay for his stay is symbolic, he knows that, but he wants to do it anyway.

A Jones shouldn’t take anything from a Lodge, not for free—it’s a truth he’s lived by for however long now. Everything you take from a family like the Lodges should be paid for with effort. Sweat, tears, blood, loyalty. Anything counts. He’s seen it happen first-hand with his dad, with Mayor McCoy, and even with Archie. You either give them something in return, or they’ll rip it out of you, sooner or later.

But as days go by, Jughead watches Veronica working, tying up the white apron around her waist, watches how she won’t let anything in her face betray her, and wonders how much has _she_ given back to her own family, how much of _her_ soul they managed to leech.

She’s hurting, too, so differently than he is that it’s almost surprising. She thinks no one can see, but she’s shaking all the time despite the warm weather outside, a subtle tremble in her hands, gooseflesh on her neck. Jughead wonders how long until she breaks; _if_ she will, _how_ she will. He knows he’ll most likely not witness it, but he imagines it’d be fascinating to see it happen.

He remembers watching her leave the classroom just the other day, the staccato of her heels echoing down the hallway, remembers finding her in her car on the verge of a panic attack. Veronica has a quality trait that she shares with Betty, Jughead supposes, piling up feelings until they explode in the most horrible ways. Maybe being fucked up is something that attracts him, but he thinks it’s beautiful when you witness something so strong just blow up, pieces scattered on the floor.

In the tiny attic-room at Pop’s that Veronica gives him, there are remnants from the person she tried to be last year.

There are tall cocktail glasses holding forgotten pearls—how can someone be _so fucking rich_ that they _forget_ about _pearls_ , Jughead thinks, scoffing in his mind—and velvet, dark gloves on a drawer. There are books that she’s left behind, paperback editions that he’s seen her read here and there. The mattress on the floor has black satin sheets, a luxury Jughead didn’t think he’d enjoy trying.

That’s probably where she used to fuck Reggie. The idea of her dark nails grabbing black hair unsettles Jughead’s stomach somehow, and he tries not to think about it.

.

.

.

He lives at Pop’s for seven weeks before he moves to Iowa.

He stays in Veronica’s old-new-world for longer than she does. They were never really friends, but he misses her, somehow, like he didn’t think he would—the quirk of her eyebrow, her witty comebacks, the berry shade of her lipstick, such a contrast to Archie’s bright eyes and Betty’s soft cardigans.

Around week four, after Veronica is already in New York and Pop’s already has a new owner—Hermione Lodge, which probably means Hiram Lodge, but who the fuck cares at this point—Betty walks into the diner. She sits at the counter and orders an old-fashioned vanilla, her pink cheeks matching her quiet voice.

He figures that she understands there’s no turning back, so he knows she’s not here to _try_. He isn’t sure if Betty and Archie ever gave _BettyandArchie_ a chance; he just knows that neither have shown up in the diner for a while, and that Archie isn’t even in town anymore.

Her nails are cut short, Jughead notices as she fiddles with the straw and he wipes the counter.

“Have you read that article about how plastic straws are killing turtles?” she asks, and it almost makes him laugh, as conversation starters go. He shakes his head. “Are you writing anything right now?”

“No,” he answers, short and simple. Betty doesn’t ask him anything, anymore.

.

.

.

(The last time Jughead had seen Veronica it was the day she left for New York. She came to say goodbye to Pop, to tell all her employees to behave, and to drink one last chocolate milkshake. Jughead drank it with her, sitting in a booth without Archie and Betty, something they had never done before, something they would never do again. They didn’t talk much but, in her eyes, he could see that it happened. She had broken, perhaps overnight. The girl in front of him was a mere collection of pieces that she was taking away to get fixed.

That very same night, in the room that once belonged to her, Jughead took out the typewriter Betty gave him, and typed _it was finally summer when the girl drove back to the city, windows open, raven hair blowing in the wind, wondering if she should have ever left it in the first place._

The book already has fifty-two pages.)

.

**Author's Note:**

> ~~in due time, if i had to sit through archie writing betty a song, everyone will sit through jughead writing veronica a whole book.~~


End file.
